A Sorcerer Among Wizards
by Wardmason
Summary: Dr. Stephen Strange doesn't like teaching. However, when a mishap with a mysterious artifact strands him in a dimension full of stick-wielding sorcerers and soul-sucking monsters, a deal with an ancient headmaster could be his only way back. After all, someone still has to stop Kaecilius.
1. Chapter 1

A/N: I've wanted to try my hand at fanfic for _years_ and this is my first actual attempt at writing one. I have a few chapters completed, but it's nearly finals time and I'm not sure what to expect. We'll see how this goes~!

Unfortunately, I own none of these characters.

* * *

"Aha!"

Kaecilius froze, stance suddenly wary, as his eyes fixed on the artifact that Dr. Stephen Strange held aloft.

Stephen hadn't expected that reaction.

He paused in surprise, glancing from the man before him to the artifact that he had just lifted from the table. Why was the corrupted sorcerer wary of a metal bowl? Okay, sure, it was more of a cauldron than a bowl and was glowing brightly with some sort of arcane golden energy, but it had seemed rather harmless when he'd grabbed it. The thing wasn't even in a case.

Kaecilius—the perceptive bastard—recognized his confusion. Instantly, his face relaxed and shifted into a superior, smug smirk.

"You don't know how to use that, do you."

Internally, Stephen seethed. No. He didn't. He was still pretty new at this, and in spite of the fact that he was advancing at a remarkable rate and holding his own against the much more experienced sorcerer and his zealots, there were still _many_ things he didn't know about magic. For now, anyway. Dr. Stephen Strange had been the best neurosurgeon in the field and he wouldn't stop until he could say the same for sorcery.

"Uh..." He glanced at the weird cauldron thing he was about to throw at the man. What could it do?

Kaecilius's blow caught him off guard.

A wave of pure force hit Stephen at chest level, throwing his body backwards and causing the bowl that he'd held to collide— _oh, that was embarrassing_ —with his face. Mordo and Wong would never let him hear the end of this. The sudden pain of the rim colliding with his cheekbone stunned him momentarily, and almost against his will Stephen found his eyes drawn to the contents of the cauldron.

The sensation was thoroughly unpleasant.

As the golden glow of the artifact overwhelmed his senses to the extent that Stephen was sure he'd gone blind, a gut-wrenching _pull_ threw all concept of gravity out the window. It felt as if he was suddenly falling in multiple directions, spinning forwards and backwards and sideways and inwards until everything was lost in a frenzy of motion and pure chaos. Stephen probably would have screamed—no, definitely would have screamed his lungs out—if he was capable of the act, but as it was he had no concept of how to control his lungs or his limbs or any other part of his body. Did his body even exist? There was nothing to see except a complete lack of… anything.

He had no idea how long the horrible falling _nothingness_ lasted or when exactly it stopped. Steven simply came to the sudden realization that he was sprawled out on his stomach, gasping for breath, with his cheek pressed against something hard, hot, and horribly uncomfortable.

Cautiously opening one eye, Stephen was just able to make out the distinctive texture of pavement before his vision swam and he squeezed it shut again. Solid ground. That was good. Gravity had apparently made up its mind to point in a single direction once again.

Stephen's inner ear, however, rebelled against the notion. For a solid few minutes, part of him was sure he would fly off the pavement and fall into the open sky. The rational part of his brain stated that this was merely caused by the residual movement of fluid against the cells in his ear's vestibular system. Another pointed out that he was a sorcerer and spontaneous flying was not at all outside the realm of possibility.

He clung to the pavement just to be safe.

A few more minutes passed and the world eventually stopped spinning. After waiting an additional few seconds just to be sure, Stephen gingerly rolled onto his side, his breathing finally calm, and directed his limbs in the overly complex motion of sitting upright.

From his new vantage point, Stephen found that he was lying in the middle of a small, quiet street, lined with low brick walls that separated disturbingly identical and well-maintained houses. The sun had set, and a small amount of light was just visible at the horizon. There were no people to be seen, but lighted windows suggested they were indoors, perhaps due to the oppressively hot weather.

Stephen frowned.

He was very obviously not in New York. For one thing, the weather was wrong. It had been threatening to snow when he'd stepped outside the Sanctum just a short while ago. And this place, the very feel of it was… different.

Stephen then noticed that something else had made the trip along with him. To his left, gleaming dully in the light of the street lamps, was the Weird Cauldron. That was its name, he decided, as he rocked to the side to retrieve the troublesome artifact. The Weird Cauldron was no longer glowing, and for the moment appeared to be a _normal_ weirdly shaped metal cauldron of unknown mystic origin. That was concerning.

Stephen rolled to his feet with minimal wobbling and—after securely tucking the Weird Cauldron under his arm—traveled to the safety of the sidewalk, eyes taking in everything as he went. There were cars parked in the driveways, all older models with steering wheels on the left side of the vehicle and license plates that he recognized as possibly belonging to England. Stephen sighed in relief. He hadn't been stranded in some random hostile dimension. He could work with this. The Sanctum in London had just been destroyed, but with his sling ring perhaps there was still enough time to get back to New York before—

Oh.

Stephen stared first at his belt, then at his left hand. His scarred, shaking left hand that was now embedded with a few pieces of gravel and completely devoid of a sling ring.

Fuck.

His heart skipped a beat as a rush of pure dread and panic threatened to overwhelm him. His sling ring was gone. He couldn't use magic to travel. The London Sanctum lay in ruins, as did the only portal on the continent that connected directly to New York. Even the Cauldron was lifeless! He was _stuck_.

Stephen clung to the brick wall as his legs suddenly went weak. He was useless here. After that Master—Daniel?—was wounded, he had been the only sorcerer left to defend the Sanctum against Kaecilius and his followers… and now he had failed. What could he do? Regardless of how he traveled it would be too late to stop the destruction of the barrier that kept the Earth safe from the Dark Dimension.

And Christine. Oh, god. Christine was in New York. If anything happened to her, he… he… no. No! How could he have let this happen? If he hadn't gotten momentarily distracted by the artifact he could have stayed and fought. But no, he had to be caught off guard by the wary look in his enemy's eyes. A perceived weakness. And no, he hadn't known what that cursed Cauldron did. He still didn't. Why would Kaecilius have been so leery of an artifact that had dropped him in _England_? The sorcerer had just been in England, destroying the Sanctum. It wasn't something to be scared of. He had a sling ring, so… why?

Stephen paused, heart racing, staring at the dead artifact that he cradled in his arm. What had the Weird Cauldron actually done? Was he… elsewhere? Could it have transported him to another dimension after all, one that wasn't his Earth? Or… wasn't his time?

Could it have?

He clung to that thought desperately, pushing off from the wall and all but running down the street as his eyes cast about for something, anything, that would—there.

He set down the Cauldron and scooped up a discarded newspaper from where it lay in the gutter, plastic sheath slightly wet from condensation but otherwise readable. Cursing his hands as they shook worse than ever, Stephen struggled with the wrapping, his hurried panic making the act of freeing the paper even more difficult. Finally, the plastic gave way and the paper fell open at his feet.

Steven dropped to his knees, eyes frantically scanning the ink. _Please._

There, in the top right corner, were the numbers that made him more hopeful than the day he had at last located Kamar-Taj.

July 30th, 1995.

Yes, the older cars. It fit.

He... he had time. Whatever the vessel had done, it had deposited him nearly 20 years in the past. Possibly even in a different dimension! While that fact should've been terrifying, Stephen let out a small hysterical giggle of pure relief. He wasn't too late. He had time. He had plenty of time. He didn't have a plan yet, but there was _time._ It didn't matter if he had no sling ring. He'd rip a hole back to New York 2016 with his bare hands once he figured out how. And he _would_ figure out how. He was not, by any stretch of the imagination, an idiot. He was _made_ for sorcery.

Stephen flexed his shaking fingers and pulled a small amount of dimensional energy into his damaged hands. There was some unexpected resistance as he formed the crackling threads, but it didn't matter. It was magic. Some intensive meditation would allow him to better connect with the energies of this place. He was Dr. Stephen Strange, after all. He would adapt. He would get back.

With a satisfied smile, Stephen settled against the wall, repositioning the Weird Cauldron so that it sat next to him. His elated mood didn't change the fact that everything _hurt_. His head was aching fiercely from multiple collisions with the various surfaces of the New York Sanctum (not to mention the Cauldron), and said collisions had done a number on the rest of his body. The right side of his ribcage would be turning some interesting colors in a few hours, he was sure.

While there were probably better places to rest than against a brick wall on a sidewalk in an English suburb, he'd seen worse in Kathmandu. Plus, he had no money, nowhere to go, and no one to call. Just like old times. Briefly, he entertained the idea that somewhere in this... place... Christine might be living her life, but if that were the case there would likely be a younger Stephen Strange running about as well. He sighed and firmly decided to avoid turning over that rock lest he break time or set off the apocalypse or something. Wong would kill him. Though, it might be a good idea to check once he was settled. For safety reasons.

What would he do, then? No money, no papers, no clue if this was his dimension. Though, even if it wasn't _his_ Earth, it could be one very similar. It had an England, after all, and London was a place he'd visited several times for medical conferences. He'd even go so far as to say that he knew the area pretty well. Would the Sanctums exist here? They could be his ticket home if he could just make it downtown.

Stephen's head throbbed and he groaned. Later. He would worry about the London Sanctum later. The brick wall was feeling more comfortable by the second. This was a good spot. It was at a more secluded corner of the street, sheltered by bushes on one side and an overhanging tree on the other. The neighborhood was quiet, no one would bother him for a while, and, most importantly, there was a street lamp. He could work with this. Might as well see what information there was to uncover.

Stephen picked up the paper and started reading.


	2. Chapter 2

A/N: Thanks so much for the reviews! I'm really excited to have a project to work on.

* * *

Stephen Strange was halfway through a poorly written report on a Spanish baggage-handler strike when he heard the voices.

So far the paper had held nothing useful, only mentions of a drought and other mundane happenings that were far less interesting than even the driest of tomes back at Kamar-Taj. Stephen was seriously considering a nap when the first faint fragments of conversation reached his ears, becoming clearer as the owners of the voices approached his resting place behind the bush.

"—Beating up tonight? Another ten-year-old? I know you did Mark Evans two nights ago—"

"He was asking for it."

"Oh yeah?"

"He cheeked me."

"Yeah? Did he say you look like a pig that's been taught to walk on its hind legs? 'Cause that's not cheek, Dud, that's true…"

Stephen had to choke back an appreciative snort at the comment. That was quality snark. He peered through the bush, getting a decent view of two boys as they turned into the alley just short of his hiding place. Not that he was actually hiding, more like… avoiding notice.

Boy 1, "Dud", did in fact look distinctly pig-like. He was a large boy, mid to late teens, with unfortunately groomed blond hair and a dangerous sort of bulk that hinted at more muscle than fat. Boy 2 couldn't have been more opposite. He was gangly and underweight, with ill-fitting clothes, round glasses, and shaggy black hair that stuck up in odd directions. Surprisingly, Boy 2 was doing the taunting, even though "Dud" looked seconds away from beating him to a pulp.

The two retreated down the alley, conversation still clear from Stephen's position. He tried to turn his attention back to the article in his lap, but honestly eavesdropping was so much more interesting.

"Think you're a big man carrying that thing, don't you?" Dud finally spoke.

"What thing?"

"That—that thing you're hiding."

Stephen frowned. That sounded vaguely ominous… was Boy 2 carrying a knife? A gun? Stephen hated guns. They served no purpose other than to cause pain and death. His thoughts drifted back to _that_ day. The sub-occipital craniotomy on Christine's patient—a GSW to brain whose life he just barely saved from the idiocy of Dr. West—had been his last operation, mere hours before the car accident had claimed his hands and destroyed his career. So much had changed since then.

"Not as stupid as you look, are you, Dud?" Boy 2 sounded smug. "But I s'pose if you were, you wouldn't be able to walk and talk at the same time…"

"You're not allowed," Dud said suddenly. "I know you're not. You'd get expelled from that freak school you go to."

"How do you know you haven't changed the rules, Big D?"

"They haven't," said Dud, though he didn't sound too sure. Boy 2 let out a quiet laugh, while Stephen shifted uncomfortably. This didn't sound like it was going to turn out well.

"You haven't got the guts to take me on without that thing, have you?" He heard Dud snarl, their conversation growing faint as the distance increased.

"Whereas you need four mates behind you before…" And they were gone.

Stephen sighed and refolded the newspaper. As long as he didn't hear the fight escalate he'd stay out of the way. This was none of his business and frankly he didn't care what happened. Regardless, it was about time for him to find a place to sleep. The ground was starting to get uncomfortable and the air had grown slightly colder. He tiredly pushed himself to his feet, wincing as the motion pulled at his bruised ribs. There was likely a fracture or two mixed in there. He'd investigate further once he was settled.

Straightening his tunic, which was still covered in dust and a few glass shards from the chaos in New York, Stephen stared absently down the street, one hand idly tracing the Eye of Agamotto that still hung about his neck. Where should he go? He couldn't hail a cab, and he was probably too far removed for a decent bus route. Not that he could afford it, anyway. There had to be—

"— _stand me?_ "

" _Point it somewhere else!_ "

"DO YOU UNDERSTAND ME?"

"GET THAT THING AWAY FROM—"

Well, damn. It looked like he might have to intervene, after all. Stephen took a few quick steps towards the alley when… _something_ happened.

The cool breeze that had appeared out of nowhere turned downright frigid, while the streetlamp that had illuminated Stephen's little corner flickered and went dark. Even the stars disappeared into the total blackness that suddenly descended upon the street. And… the cold. It had surpassed any sort of cold that Stephen had ever experienced—and he'd been dumped on the actual Mount Everest in nothing but a light tunic. It was a cold that settled with a heavy weight at the very core of his being.

Alarmed, Stephen turned his attention towards the alley. It was now an inky black pit, and seemed to emanate the dark _wrongness_ that had so quickly coalesced. He strained his ears, listening for any sign of the two boys who had just been in that alley. There was nothing. He took a tentative step towards the blackness, even though every instinct he possessed screamed to get away. There was something, did he hear—?

"You moron, Dudley!" it was faint, but that was Boy 2 yelling. Stephen took another step towards the cold, shivering. "DUDLEY, COME BACK! YOU'RE RUNNING RIGHT AT IT!" And there was a noise, more of a terrified squeal than a yell, but it was Dud. Dudley.

Adrenaline shot through Stephen's system, putting him on high alert. Something was in that alley with those boys. Whatever it was, it was… _wrong._ It had to be magical, but he had never heard of anything like this. Ever. In all of his days and nights spent poring over the books in Kamar-Taj's singularly impressive library. It had to be something unique to this dimension, some spell or creature that he had no knowledge of. What could he possibly— no. He mentally slapped himself. _Pull yourself together, Strange. You're a sorcerer. Do something!_

With a deep breath, Stephen broke into a hesitant run. Boy 2 was yelling.

"DUDLEY, KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT! WHATEVER YOU DO, KEEP YOUR MOUTH SHUT!"

It was so dark. And the cold… it became nearly impossible to move forward. Each faltering step brought more darkness. More blackness. More cold. It was draining Stephen's very spirit, and against his will a deep despair started to overtake his mind. He needed light. Magic. _Something._

A hoarse rattling noise reverberated throughout the darkness. It sounded like breathing. Horrible, horrible breathing.

Stephen shivered, unable to see anything but blackness, and firmly closed his mouth. His hands, trembling even worse in the cold, made frantic motions through the air. There was a small spark… and that was somehow worse. He caught the barest glimpse of a dark, hooded figure not fifteen feet ahead of him, looming over what he could only assume was Dudley. Then nothing.

There was that rattling breath again. Just ahead. The… _thing_.

Stephen's whole body shook, his legs barely supporting his weight. There were voices… memories, echoing through his mind, driving into his heart like ice cold daggers that threatened to bring him to his knees.

 _Your hands… the nerves… permanent damage._

The rattling drew closer.

 _His car, going over the edge. Shattered glass. Pain.  
_ _Doctor after doctor. Failed procedures.  
_ _Nothing else to be done. Hopeless._

No no no no he had to do something. Magic. He needed _magic_. Frantically, his hands made the motions. Once… twice… but not even a spark appeared. With a shudder, Stephen fell to one knee.

There were some sounds from further down the alley, but the rattling was right above him now. He felt the thing's presence. So cold, and empty, and dark.

 _There are other things that can give your life meaning!  
_ _Like what? Like_ _you_ _?_

He had to do something. He didn't want to die here! And Christine… he hadn't had the chance to apologize. If he didn't make it back, she would be pulled into the Dark Dimension along with the rest of Earth.

He couldn't give up yet.

With a rush of stubborn determination, Stephen filled his mind with Dr. Christine Palmer. Her smile. Her laugh. Her caring for him even when he pushed her away. _He had to get back to Christine_.

His hands shook mercilessly as he drew them through the air. The magic itself seemed to be fighting against him as he pulled it kicking, spitting, and sparking into reality, the warm light bringing into view the being looming not a foot away... reaching.

With a scream, Stephen shoved a mass of golden energy directly into the thing in front of him, both hands burning with raw power. At this range, it was impossible to miss.

And he didn't.

The blast buried itself in what passed for the creature's chest cavity, lighting it up from the inside with a terrible burning glow. The noise that it emitted defied description. It was horrible, screeching, both audible and tangible as it threatened to shatter Stephen's eardrums. He scrambled backwards, clapping his hands over his ears in an attempt to block out the pain. The cloaked thing tried to make its own escape, but was seemingly fixed in place… the energy eating away at its skeletal form, disintegrating the tattered cloak until the noise ceased and… it was gone.

A few scraps of black lit with glowing embers hung suspended in the air, drifting downwards ever so slowly as they, too, were destroyed.

Stephen fell back on his elbows, panting, as the last traces of the creature vanished. Light had returned to the alleyway, and he could now clearly see Dudley, who was curled up in the fetal position a few feet away. The large boy was trembling uncontrollably and let out a slight whimper of terror.

Boy 2, however, was on his feet. He was standing further back next to—was that a… silver _stag_? Stephen blinked hard. The creature was glowing with a cool light—very different from his own dimensional magic—and seemed to be standing protectively beside the wild-eyed teen. Was it some form of guardian spirit? Stephen had never seen a spell like that before.

The stag tossed its antlers once and fading into nothing.

Huh. Definitely magic. Just his luck that he'd find a fellow sorcerer so quickly.

Said sorcerer, Stephen noticed, was staring at him in open-mouthed shock, one hand tightly clutching a polished wooden stick. Was that a relic of some sort? Perhaps it had enabled him to summon the stag.

Stephen blinked a few more times, then shook his head, trying to clear the fog of shock that was clouding his mind. If the teen was indeed a sorcerer, he needed some information. It was looking more and more likely that the Weird Cauldron had landed him in a new dimension, and he was getting the impression that things might be _very_ different here.

 _So, strike up a conversation, Stephen._

Dr. Strange gingerly shifted his weight onto one elbow and raised his hand in a shaky greeting.

"Hello."


	3. Chapter 3

A/N: Exams are finally over and I plan to spend a large portion of my break writing. Sweet glorious freedom.

I've gotten a lot of comments from people about the Cloak of Levitation not making an appearance—so yeah, most of this story is going to be pre-cloak. I freaking love the cloak, but I really wanted to focus on Stephen's experience in the HP universe and I knew if I let the cloak tag along I'd never shut up about it. I do have plans, though~

As always, thank you so much for the kind reviews.

* * *

To say that Harry Potter was having a strange evening would be an understatement.

It had started out like nearly every other day that summer—tedious and full of tension as he awaited some hint of Voldemort's movements, going so far as to hide in the bushes to listen to Muggle news (his Aunt and Uncle having kicked him out of the living room for acting too suspicious). He searched for some disappearance, some unexplainable… _anything_ , but as always that nervous energy turned to a mixture of relief and bitter frustration as none arrived. Voldemort _had to_ be up to something!

His best friends… his godfather… everyone was ignoring him, responding with vague and apologetic letters as he desperately tried to find out what was going on. Didn't he deserve to know?

Harry was the one who had faced Voldemort in the graveyard just a few months ago. It was _his_ _blood_ that was used to resurrect the man who'd killed his parents. And Harry had held him off in a duel long enough to escape. Hadn't he proven himself capable, after everything that had happened? He had a right to be kept informed!

So why was everyone cutting him out? Treating him like a child while he was stranded, out of touch, with the Dursleys? Ron and Hermione and Sirius were off somewhere _actually involved_ , a part of the wizarding world… and Harry was stuck on Privet Drive. Again.

He hated this place. Every summer he was trapped here, making the dreaded transition from the comfort and excitement of Hogwarts to the hostile and strait-laced confines of the Dursley household. Things had certainly gotten easier since Harry had discovered magic. His aunt and uncle's typical loathing was now tinged with no small amount of fear. Not that they had anything to worry about, really—he wasn't allowed to use magic outside of school, no matter how tempting it might be to hex Dudley. For the most part, they left him alone as long as he stayed out of the way, and Harry was more than happy to comply. The dislike was mutual.

Though the summer was exhaustingly hot, Harry preferred to spend his time outside. It was the only place he could have some space to himself. The whole neighborhood shirked his presence, Aunt Petunia and Uncle Vernon having spread the story that he was locked away at St Brutus's Secure Centre for Incurably Criminal Boys for most of the year. That, coupled with Dudley's awful hand-me-downs, made him a figure to be avoided at all costs in this neighborhood. Some people even crossed the street so as not to come into contact with _that delinquent boy_.

Privet Drive had always been mind-numbingly normal. No magic "freakishness" to be seen here.

Until, of course, two Dementors attacked him in an alley and a mysterious wizard leapt to his rescue.

Harry stared at the man before him in shock.

The stranger was tall, with dark brown hair that was turning silver at the temples and a thin, well-kept beard. His face was caked with dried blood from several small cuts, while a curved bruise was blossoming under one eye. He looked thoroughly exhausted, and was staring at the empty air that Harry's Patronus had just occupied with a dazed expression.

Feeling rather dazed himself, Harry turned his gaze to the last remaining fragment of black cloth—all that was left of the first Dementor's cloak—as it burned slightly before dissolving into mist. The man had just… _destroyed_ a Dementor. Destroyed, not driven off. Was that even possible? If he hadn't just seen it with his own two eyes, Harry wouldn't have thought so.

He'd been too preoccupied with fending off the second Dementor to notice when the man had shown up. He was just… _there_ when Harry had turned to help Dudley. There, screaming, as he slammed an orb of golden energy into the creature's chest and turned it to ash with his bare hands.

The man hadn't even used a wand!

Harry gripped his own wand tightly, frozen in place as he stared at the strange wizard. He _must_ be a wizard. His clothes, while unlike any sort of robes Harry had encountered, could pass well enough in the mayhem of Diagon Alley. The multiple layers of dark blue fabric looked somewhat robe-like, and the golden, eye-shaped object that rested about his neck wouldn't be out of place among the many magical contraptions in Dumbledore's office.

This man obviously didn't belong in Wisteria Walk. Could he be the one who had Apparated earlier in the evening while Harry had been lying in the bushes? He would know that sound anywhere—a wizard had been in the backyard, watching him. And for how long? There had been no magical activity, no real contact all summer, until now. Until him. And…

Who _was_ this wizard?

The man, still splayed out on the ground, shook his head slightly, brow furrowing as he turned his attention to Harry. They stared at each other for a moment, the wizard's blue-green eyes giving Harry the all too familiar feeling of being x-rayed. For a moment, the man seemed unsure what to do next, before he shifted his weight and raised a hand in greeting.

"Hello."

With a start, Harry realized that his mouth was still hanging open in surprise and shut it with a click. The man's lips twitched with amusement.

"This is the part where you say 'hello'... or 'hi'... or 'hey'. I have no preference, really," he said in an unexpectedly deep voice that Harry realized carried an American accent. He couldn't recall ever meeting an American wizard. Could that explain the strange clothing? The wizard pushed himself into a sitting position with a wince, one hand clutching his side in obvious pain. "Or, of course, you could say nothing at all and continue to make this situation increasingly awkward for the both of us."

Harry blinked a few times. The man's words finally registering.

"Oh. Erm… hi," he said weakly.

"He speaks! Now we're making pro—" the man cut off with a groan, halting in his attempt to stand as he once again put his hand to his side. Harry finally got his feet working and started towards the other wizard.

"Er… are you alright?"

"I believe I've fractured a rib or two, but I'll live," he wheezed, finally managing to get to his feet. The man swayed slightly but seemed to find his balance before holding out a hand in greeting. "Dr. Stephen Strange."

Harry pocketed his wand and shook the man's hand dazedly, still struggling to process what had just happened. Doctor was a purely Muggle term, wasn't it? He hadn't heard it used by any British wizards, unless it was an American thing. And what sort of name was "Strange"?

Said Strange was staring at him expectantly. To his embarrassment, Harry realized he was still shaking the man's hand and had yet to reply. He quickly let go and cleared his throat self-consciously.

"I'm Harry. Harry Potter."

Strange nodded, still looking slightly amused, but otherwise showed no reaction to meeting the "Boy Who Lived". That in itself was enough to make Harry slightly suspicious. Instead, Strange turned his attention the other side of the alley where Dudley lay, whimpering.

"Pleasure to meet you, Harry. This one is Dudley, correct?" he said, walking over in a businesslike manner to kneel beside his cousin's shaking form. Harry frowned. How exactly did he know that? Had he been watching them, after all? Glancing back, Strange seemed to notice his mounting suspicion and gave a dismissive wave.

"I heard you yelling his name from down the alley. Do you mind if I check him over?"

"Why?" Harry asked, still wary. The man's responding look made him want to melt into the pavement.

"I'm… _a_ _doctor_."

Harry felt his face grow hot.

"Oh, er… right. Sorry. Go ahead," he watched in silence as Strange immediately began checking Dudley's pulse. He obviously knew what he was doing, though he had yet to cast any of the diagnostic spells that Harry had become all too familiar with during his numerous stays in the hospital wing. Why was he doing things the Muggle way?

Drifting closer, Harry noticed that Strange's hands trembled constantly as he held his fingers to Dudley's wrist. Not only that, but they were covered in scars. What could've caused injuries like those? From what Harry understood, only dark magic left permanent marks that couldn't be removed by a Healer. The doctor murmured some numbers to himself and lifted one of Dudley's eyelids to check his pupils. The large boy protested weakly, but Strange batted his hand away and continued his ministrations.

"Is he okay?" Harry asked, feeling rather useless as he stood to the side doing nothing.

"Well, he's starting to go into shock," Strange said drily. "So I'd have to say 'no'. Do either of you live nearby?"

Harry gave a shaky nod. "He's my cousin. We live just down the street."

The wizard stared at him critically for a moment, then glanced around the alley.

"Hmm. Now, normally I'd avoid moving him, but personally I'd rather not sit around in case more of those… _things_ return. We need to get him inside as quickly as possible before he gets worse."

Harry paled. "Worse?" He could already envision his aunt and uncle's frenzied reactions. There would be yelling, lots of it, and he'd probably be stuck in his room for the week.

Strange started to snap out a reply, but caught himself. Harry could almost see him mentally counting to ten and could guess that the doctor wasn't a person who easily tolerated what he thought were "dumb questions". Unlike Uncle Vernon—who would've yelled at Harry for pestering him—Strange just sighed sharply and said in a slow, slightly irritated voice:

"Shock is a serious condition. If left untreated, his body will start shutting down and he'll lose proper circulation to his internal organs. He needs to go to the hospital as soon as possible, though luckily for the moment you have _me_. Do you have a cell phone?" Strange paused, shook his head, then muttered to himself. "Wait, no. Stupid question. It's 1995."

Before Harry could process that odd response, the sound of loud, running footsteps reached his ears. He turned, drawing his wand out of reflex, just as Mrs. Figg came panting into sight. His elderly neighbor was a mess, her grizzled gray hair escaping its hairnet and her tartan carpet slippers nearly falling off her feet. Harry quickly made to hide his wand, but she shrieked—

"Don't put it away, idiot boy! What if there are more of them around? Oh, I am going to _kill_ Mundungus Fletcher!"


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: So sorry for the long wait! I injured my neck shortly after posting the previous chapter and had to wait a while before I could get back into writing. Everything's fine now, though… tried to make this one a bit longer to make up for it. Thanks so much for all the awesome reviews/faves/follows~!

Also a huge thanks to Aelaer for being an awesome beta.

* * *

Stephen's thoughts were racing.

He had a million questions for this so-called "Harry Potter". What were those creatures? Was Harry a sorcerer? Where the hell was he? What sort of magic _was_ that? But he held them back. The boy was pale and shaky and seemed on the verge of freaking out, though he was doing much better than his overweight cousin. As anxious as Stephen was to figure out his situation, it was probably best to take things slowly. It wouldn't do to pester the kid when he might not even know about other dimensions.

Instead, Stephen tried to focus on his new patient.

 _Tried,_ that is, being the operative word. It was frustratingly difficult to keep his thoughts on track, and Stephen ended up monitoring the boy's pulse longer than necessary in an effort to steady himself. That horrid dark energy was still clinging to the edges of his mind, chipping away at the artificial calm he'd been clinging to since he was dumped in a seemingly random English suburb twenty years in the past. He hated to admit it, but he was scared. He was still a rather novice sorcerer, after all. He had only just learned the true scope of the multiverse and was not at all prepared to be tossed into another dimension on his own with no knowledge of how to get back. And without a sling ring—!

 _Stop it. Pull yourself together._

Dudley was definitely showing signs of shock—rapid heartbeat, shallow breathing, cool and sweaty skin, confusion—though as far as he could tell the boy had suffered no physical injury. _Probably best for us to get out of the open, then._ Normally, he'd be strongly against moving a patient, but things were far from _normal_ here. Regardless, he would feel much better when Dudley was safely situated at a hospital under medical supervision. Far away from dark creatures in cloaks.

Stephen had to restrain himself to keep from snapping out a biting comment when Harry asked after his cousin. _Worse? Of course shock could get worse! What did—This is not the time to lose your head, Strange. Stay calm. Play nice._ He counted to ten, fighting down the irritation and anger that accompanied his panic. He couldn't afford to drive this kid off… though that did seem to be one of his specialities. So far, Harry was his only link to knowledge of this place and its magic, and _hopefully_ a way back home… if he was lucky.

His response still came out rather more patronizing than he'd intended, but the kid didn't seem to mind. Thankfully, Harry also didn't seem to notice his 1995 comment, and Stephen mentally berated himself for not keeping closer track of his words. As Wong and Mordo had stressed earlier ( _had it really been less than an hour ago?_ ), time was not something to be tampered with.

Stephen suppressed a shudder. He'd been spoiled by technology since his rise to neurosurgical stardom, and if he remembered correctly (which of course he did) cell phones here would more closely resemble bricks with antennae. That was something he'd definitely have to readjust to after his iPad back at Kamar-Taj. Hell, he'd have to use _Windows '95_!

Fortunately, both Stephen and Harry were thoroughly distracted by the sudden appearance of an extremely disheveled old woman in a hairnet and house slippers.

Stephen watched the scene unfolding before him with interest and no small amount of bewilderment.

Harry was on high alert and drew the stick relic with practiced ease as soon as he had heard the approaching footsteps. This was a kid who expected a fight… not that Stephen could blame him. But—it did make him wonder how the teen was so prepared. Harry had an air of readiness about him that could only be gained from one thing: experience. Were such attacks common in this dimension?

Apparently Harry knew the woman, for he relaxed his guard immediately as she rounded the corner and made to hide the relic behind his back. Either the woman wasn't supposed to see the stick or Harry wasn't supposed to have it; there was something at play here that Stephen didn't understand.

No, not true. He didn't understand _any_ of this.

The old lady screeched at Harry, who halted in his attempt to stow the relic with an expression of such utter confusion that it bordered on comical.

"…What?"

"He left!" The woman wrung her hands in distress, glancing at the sky as if expecting another creature to dive down at any second. "Left to see someone about a batch of cauldrons that fell off the back of a broom! I told him I'd flay him alive if he went, and now look! _Dementors_! It's just lucky I put Mr. Tibbles on the case! But we haven't got time to stand around! Hurry, now, we've got to get you back! Oh, the trouble this is going to cause! I will kill him!"

Harry stared at the woman in shock, while Stephen's thoroughly confused brain attempted to process whatever it was he'd just heard.

"But—you're… you're a _witch_?" Harry asked in disbelief. The woman shook her head fervently.

"I'm a Squib, as Mundungus knows full well, so how on earth was I supposed to help you fight off Dementors? He left you completely without cover when I'd warned him—"

Stephen abandoned his effort to understand their conversation as he was bombarded with unfamiliar terms. Witch, not sorcerer? Squib? That one had to be made up… but 'Dementors' must be the cloaked creatures. _What the hell was this place_?

At least he wasn't the only one who was confused.

"This Mundungus has been following me? Hang on—it was him! He Disapparated from the front of my house! But, I thought it was you…?"

Caught up in his mental analysis of 'Disapparated', Stephen was wholly unprepared as he suddenly became the focus of the pair's attention. Harry had turned and was eyeing him with a mixture of confusion and distrust, while the crazy slipper lady had apparently just noticed his presence and jumped in surprise. Stephen blinked.

"What?"

Harry narrowed his eyes and readjusted his grip on the stick as he studied Stephen. "You weren't the one outside my house earlier today?"

"Uh, no? I was in _New York_ until about 30 minutes ago. And before that I was in Nepal, where I have been for the past several months. I really had no intention of visiting England—" _or 1995_ "—today," he grimaced. "And I have better things to do than spy on teenagers."

The old woman looked alarmed, and glanced from Stephen to Harry and back again.

"Harry, who is this man? Who are you? What are you doing here?" She raised her handbag in a threatening manner and Stephen scrambled to his feet, trying his best to look calm and collected as he readjusted his belt with shaking hands. However, Harry cut in before he could introduce himself.

"He's a wizard. He destroyed the second Dementor that was attacking Dudley."

" _Sorcerer_ ," Stephen corrected automatically, earning odd looks from the other two. "And speaking of Dudley, he needs to go to the hospital. I was also under the impression that standing around outside was a _bad idea_."

At this, the woman twitched nervously and squinted up at the sky.

"Yes, yes… I suppose so." She loosened her grip on the handbag and shook one bony finger at Stephen. "You'd better not try anything, though, Mr…?"

" _Doctor_ Strange."

"Really? How odd. Oh, what am I going to tell Dumbledore? He won't like this one bit!"

"Wait— you know Dumbledore?" Harry—who had been eyeing Stephen critically—turned to her in surprise.

"Of course I know Dumbledore, who doesn't know Dumbledore?"

"Me," Stephen said under his breath as he stooped and wrestled with one of Dudley's beefy arms in an attempt to get the boy standing. _Lift with your knees, Strange_. His new patient was less than cooperative, and despite his best efforts the boy slid bonelessly back towards the pavement, nearly pulling the sorcerer with him. Stephen wheezed loudly as the motion tugged at his ribs. Fortunately, Harry noticed his plight and leapt to the rescue.

"Thanks," Stephen gasped as they managed to haul Dudley to his feet. Harry nodded in return.

Meanwhile, the old lady was hovering nervously ahead of them, checking the sky every few seconds as if she expected an army of creatures to descend at any moment. Stephen _really_ hoped that wouldn't be the case.

"Hurry up!"

Stephen rolled his eyes and picked up speed. Between himself and Harry, Dudley's weight was almost manageable, and they followed closely behind the woman as she led them out onto the street.

"Keep your wands out, the both of you. Never mind the Statute of Secrecy now, there's going to be hell to pay anyway, we might as well be hanged for a dragon as an egg—"

"What do you mean, 'wands'?" Stephen interrupted. Though, as he noticed the kid struggling to fish the stick relic out from his back pocket he realized what she meant. "Oh. Never mind."

Harry sent him another calculating glance, his green eyes intense.

"What exactly _are_ you doing here?" he asked as he finally managed to withdraw the wand.

Stephen exhaled slowly. _It's a fair question_. He could feel the weight of Harry's expectant stare as he considered his response carefully. _Where to begin?_ No matter how he phrased it in his head, the explanation sounded ludicrous even to him. As a man of science, Stephen still wasn't quite used to including the words "magic" and "multiverse" in a serious conversation. At least Harry seemed to have some sort of mystical knowledge to begin with, but would it be enough?

"Do you know anything about alternate dimensions?"

Harry frowned and shook his head. _Great. Just great._ Stephen closed his eyes as _that_ faint hope was extinguished.

"Well, to start with, I—"

The was a loud _CRACK_ and Stephen nearly dropped his half of Dudley in surprise. About two houses ahead of them, a short, unkempt man had appeared out of… nowhere. _These 'wizards' can teleport? Without a sling ring?!_ Apparently the old lady knew the man, for she began screeching immediately.

"MUNDUNGUS FLETCHER, I AM GOING TO KILL YOU!"

 _Ah, the infamous Mundungus_. The old woman ran ahead, brandishing her handbag like a medieval weapon, while Stephen and Harry followed as quickly as they were able. Mundungus dodged out of reach of the flailing accessory and stared at them in surprise.

"What 'appened to staying undercover, Figgy? And who're you?"

Stephen—who was getting very tired of this question—opted not to answer and scowled at the man instead. 'Figgy', however, continued her shouting.

"HE was doing YOUR job, you useless, skiving sneak thief! _DEMENTORS_!"

"Dementors?" Mundungus gaped at them. "Dementors, 'ere?"

"Unless you know of some other black-cloaked, depression-inducing, Ringwraith-esque creatures…?" Stephen offered. _Hopefully not._ The comment earned him blank looks from Mundungus and Harry, while Figgy continued to rant.

"And on YOUR watch, you worthless pile of bat droppings!" she cried. "Didn't I tell you not to go after those stolen cauldrons? _Didn't I_?"

Stephen's heart stuttered in horror.

 _The cauldron._

"… _Shit_!"

He had left it behind!

Mundungus, Figgy, and Harry all gazed at him in alarm. Stephen blinked. Did he say that out loud? Yes. Yes he did. _Fantastic._ Stephen fought down his panic and turned to Harry.

"I, uh, left something… back there. By the alley. Very important. Here, can you—?" Stephen ducked under Dudley's arm and stepped to the side. Harry's eyes widened as he was suddenly saddled with the entirety of his cousin's bulk, but he seemed fine enough. "Ok, great. I will be _right_ back. I just gotta—"

He turned and began fast-walking towards the alley as quickly as his long legs would allow. If anything happened to that cauldron he was screwed. It had to be there. It probably WAS there and he was just panicking unnecessarily but who knew? This was another dimension ( _in the past!_ ) and he'd been attacked by Dementors within the first few minutes, so anything was possible and it was best to be safe, right?

"Oh, wait!" He made a 180 and shouted towards the teen, "Which house is yours?"

The whole group was gawking after him in silence.

"Er… number four, Privet Drive?" Harry called back after a moment of hesitation.

"Great! Great, just need a sec. Be right there."

He quickened his pace to a light jog, rounding the corner of the alley just as Figgy started yelling again. _Even breaths. In, out. It's just a fractured rib, you wimp, breathe through it_. Stephen did his best to ignore the shadows as his adrenaline-fueled brain started to play tricks with his peripheral vision. _There's nothing there. Just go get the damn cauldron_. There was another faint crack—presumably Mundungus teleporting again—as Stephen finally reached the end of the alley. He slowed to a walk, side burning. _Please be there, please be there._

Just behind the bushes, and…

Stephen called out a silent thanks to every deity he could name. The Weird Cauldron was right where he'd left it, shining innocently in the faint light of the surrounding street lamps. _How could one little relic have caused so much trouble?_ He scooped up the cauldron and glared at it. _This is all your fault, you know._ How the HELL was he supposed to get back? Or activate the damn thing? Stephen stared into the empty bowl, but there was no golden glow to whisk him away again.

He was well and truly stuck here.

The warm breeze buffeted Stephen's hair and he let out a sigh. He needed to go find Harry again. He was burning up in these robes and he had many, _many_ questions in need of answering.

Due to some combination of relief and exhaustion, the shadows didn't bother him nearly as much on the trek back. His multiple bruises and injured ribs were making themselves known, however, and he adopted a more sedate pace as he turned onto Wisteria Walk, deep in thought. For a moment, Stephen entertained the idea of leaving the neighborhood entirely. He could do it. He could just keep walking and never have to deal with those cloaked creatures or weird magic users again. He was resourceful and smart. Surely he could find some way to support himself and get back home on his own? _No. You have nothing here, Stephen. No money. No friends. No job history or papers or references or Google search results for CNN interviews. Even if your past self exists here, he'll be eighteen! Dr. Stephen Strange means absolutely nothing in this place._

There really was no choice in the matter. Aside from running to the police station and feigning amnesia, there were no other options available. As much as Stephen disliked the idea, he had to go to Harry and his friends and ask for help. He was once again a charity case.

Stephen kicked a pebble in frustration and watched as it sailed into the grass. Could they help him? _Would_ they? The three wizards— witches— squibs— _whatever_ these people called themselves—had been very much on edge. Stephen just had to hope that they'd get over their suspicions once they heard his story. Whether or not they'd believe him was another matter entirely. Hell, he hardly believed it himself.

As Stephen limped past number two, Privet Drive, he was able to hear muffled shouting coming from the house ahead. _What the hell was going on? Did something else happen?_ He sped up the sidewalk to number four and— _woah_. Stephen stumbled slightly as he came into contact with some sort of magical field around the house. Whatever it was ( _worry about it later, Stephen_ ), it tingled sharply against his skin as he passed through the invisible bubble and made his way to the porch. There was so much unfamiliar magic here! He couldn't wait to— _dammit_!

Stephen wobbled to the side as he barely avoided stepping in what was most definitely a puddle of vomit decorating number four's welcome mat. _First Dementors, then a freaking spirit deer, two wizards, a magical barrier, and vomit!_ This was not a good day to be off his game. At least that answered the question as to whether or not Dudley was improving. _Hopefully Harry remembered to call an ambulance._ The sorcerer carefully stepped around the mess and turned his attention to the house, where he could clearly hear a British man shouting angrily.

"So! You put some crackpot spell on my son so he'd hear voices and believe he was— doomed to misery, or something, didn't you?"

Oh, joy. Dudley's father. He sounded… _pleasant._

"How many times do I have to tell you?" Harry shouted back. "It wasn't me! It was a couple of Dementors!"

"A couple of— what's this codswallop?"

Stephen decided it was time to interrupt before Harry got himself into trouble. Or rather, _additional_ trouble, by the sound of it. He straightened his tunic, ran a hand through his hair, and put on his best ' _I'm a doctor, don't argue with me_ ' face as he rang the doorbell. The noise was surprisingly loud as it cut through Harry's response, and the occupants of number four went dead silent.

There was some frantic whispering from within, then a thud, before Stephen saw the warped outline of a large figure approaching the front entry. After a brief pause, the door was wrenched open to reveal an overweight, red-faced man with black hair, beady blue eyes, and an atrocious mustache. This had to be Dudley's father… the resemblance was uncanny. The man glared at Stephen, taking in his appearance from head to foot and apparently finding it highly distasteful.

"Who the hell're you?"

Stephen felt his eyebrow twitch as he struggled to maintain a neutral expression. _Did this man have no manners?_ It took all of his self control to keep his voice light and minimally sarcastic.

"Good evening to you, too. I'm Dr. Stephen Strange. I'd like to speak with Harry Potter, if it's not too much trouble."


	5. Update!

**Just an update** for those of you wondering when I'll be writing more... felt bad for dropping off the radar.

I was hired to illustrate my first book, and while it's an awesome opportunity, the art has been consuming _all_ of my free time. It's a large project so it'll probably be a while (maybe months) before I can get back to updating this story. Definitely haven't abandoned it though and I'll continue as soon as possible.

In the meantime, thanks so much for the feedback, everyone! Your reviews make my day and I wish I could have a new chapter ready. If you have any feedback or suggestions for the story so far (or just want to nerd out over these awesome characters) I'd be happy to answer PMs.


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